


We All Get Depressed

by Metafiction



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Abandoned Building, Angst, Familial Abuse, Homophobic Language, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 10:07:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2728382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metafiction/pseuds/Metafiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>How the fuck can we not living around here?</em><br/>Ian Gallagher and Mickey Milkovich meet at the end; one about to jump, the other ready to put a bullet in his brain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We All Get Depressed

**Author's Note:**

> The draft for this accidentally posted earlier with no content for some reason?? This actually has the fic in it now haha  
> S'quite a hefty list of bad tags there, but I needed an outlet and this angst poured out so I apologise.  
> The sentences in italics are time jumps.

His chest’s heaving by the time he gets to the roof. He thinks it’s more to do with the oncoming panic attack than the actual physical exertion. The gun in his pocket feels like it weighs a thousand tonnes and it’s hard to get up the crumbling stairs. But he does it.

_‘Fucking cocksucker.’ Terry doesn’t even shout it, spits it under his breath like there’s an infection wrapped around the words._

There’s a constant grimace on his face and his lip splits back open again, the iron taste of it making him feel sicker this time rather than spurring on the usual adrenaline rush. It’s strange for him to not want to spill more blood, to fight, even.

He sniffs through a broken nose and keeps on trekking up through the dilapidated building. He used to love this place, used to come here all the time to get high or drunk. Maybe both until he threw up. He’s caught up in this so it’s not long before he reaches the top floor where he knows there’s a rusted door to the roof, squeaky with a lack of use. Fresh air.

_Punch after punch. He’s having to close his eyes just to attempt to imagine it’s not really his father doing this. Maybe it could be some drug-deal-gone-wrong and the coked up dealer’s moving away from the punches and starting to trample all over his stomach with steel toed boots. Inside he’s gotta laugh because this fucker thinks Mickey’s paying over a grand for his B-grade pills? He’ll take the fucking beating and keep his money._

_He can’t keep up the story for too long though. Soon enough, the guy pulverizing him morphs back into his dad, the man who (barely) raised him._

Mickey’s dirty fingernails and scuffed tattooed knuckles disappear for a moment as his fingers enter his pocket to close around the gun, but he doesn’t pull it out just yet. He squeezes his eyes closed, annoyed to realise they’re filling up with moisture. His chest’s still rising and falling too quickly and he’s weak _so fucking weak_.

This is why it takes him a while to spot the person standing right on the edge of the building, looking at the ground some five storeys down. It’s obvious what he’s about to do, though Mickey doesn’t know how far away he is from taking that one step more. He’s fucking surprised as hell because he’s never seen anyone else around in this particular building, he’s actually come to think of it as his. And especially on the day he’s not supposed to be here anymore.

He’d recognise that red hair anywhere, not that anyone else would know that. He hasn’t even talked to the guy before, so he justifies to himself that he knows him because, fuck, who _hasn’t_ heard of the Gallagher’s on the South Side?

‘Gallagher?’

Ian had probably been in some sort of trance until then, actually flinching slightly at the sound of another person’s voice. Maybe he’d been closer to jumping than Mickey thought. When he turns around, his face is expressionless, but he still squints against the sun to get a look at whoever called his name.

‘M… Mickey? Mickey Milkovich?’ His family has a reputation too.

Mickey nods slowly and limps towards the other boy who’s slowly stepping away from the ledge. ‘Hey.’

‘…Hey,’ Ian says slowly, almost dreamily. Mickey wonders if he’s taken something. Kind of fucking hopes so because he looks so vacant.

When Mickey gets close enough, Ian’s eyes go wide as they land on the gun poking out of Mickey’s pocket. Fuck, he’d thought he’d hidden it again.

‘You didn’t know I was gonna be here, did you?’

Looking for confirmation that Mickey’s not come here to rough him up and / or kill him. The question seems rhetorical, too, because Ian looks like he knows what the gun’s presence really means.

‘I ain’t gonna kill you, if that’s what you’re asking.’

There’s a sick smirk on Ian’s face then. ‘You could. Might save us a little time and some passers-by a little trauma.’

‘Like anyone’s gonna fuckin’ walk past this place.’ He doesn’t want to dwell too much on the image of Ian Gallagher sprawled out, lifeless, on the gravel, blood too bright to ignore.

Ian shrugs. ‘Still.’

Mickey gulps and it creeps him out to look at the emptiness in Ian’s eyes for too long. Almost makes him forget why he’s here, like he just came for the sole purpose of staring blankness in the face.

Ian frowns then and it’s the most genuine expression Mickey’s seen on his face since he got here. ‘Why are you up here?’ Then he tacks on the end, ‘And why do you have a gun?’

That sounds hollow. It’s fucked up to hear it, because that’s exactly how Mickey sounds – defeated – when he’s not trying to be somebody, whether that’s for his family or when he’s doing his job. It triggers something in his brain and it starts whirring, bringing up images of already bruised fists the split second before they come into contact with his jaw.

_He knows he’s black and blue already, bone crunching with each new hit. He’s fucking amazed he’s still conscious._

‘I, uh… Things are just fucked, man,’ Mickey chokes out. He hates this, he hates sounding weak, but it’s who he is, really. He’s just been putting on a front for too long and it has to stop.

‘What did you do to your face?’

For someone who clearly has given up on feeling, the guy is eager to keep up with the fucking questions. Mickey, strangely, isn’t scared to answer for a change. ‘Fag bashing session,’ he replies with a bitter smile and he can feel the cut on his bottom lip seeping gore again. He’s got nothing to hide now, he guesses. But he can’t help the feeling that he’s stalling, that he’s too fucking pathetic to even go through with blowing his brains out once and for all.

Ian tilts his head and there’s a flicker – finally – of something angry in his eyes. ‘I’ve heard about what you do.’

‘Nah, it…’ Mickey lets out a little cough and watches as Ian gradually crouches down and sits next to him, immediately picking up a loose rock from the cracked floor. ‘I… I was the fag, alright?’

Ian whistles lowly and chuckles. ‘Sucks, doesn’t it?’

There’s some mild surprise at that, because it sounds like an admission. ‘What, you’re… you’re…’ Shit, he can’t even force the word _gay_ out.

‘Gay?’ Ian does it for him. ‘Yeah.’

Mickey gulps and his spit feels thicker, like it’s helping choke up his throat. ‘That why you’re up here, then?’

‘No…’ Ian says, and that distance is back in his voice and he’s not looking at Mickey anymore. Mickey’s normally a selfish prick but this time he’s not going to press for Ian to keep talking just for his own gain in knowledge. It won’t be worth anything soon, anyway.

To his surprise, Ian begins to speak slowly at his own accord. ‘There’s this demon where my mind should be.’

Mickey thinks he’s fucking crazy for a second, and nearly voices his thoughts, but then realises that’s the reaction he’s been taught to display. He’s not that guy anymore. If he thinks about it, he gets it, what Ian means.

A slight summer breeze ruffles Ian’s hair as Mickey stares at him. There’s a weird feeling swirling around in his stomach that he’s completely unfamiliar with and wants gone. There’s no reason for him to be feeling anything, really, not now when it’s too late and his fingers can brush against a gun every so often.

Might as well get it over with.

_‘I’ll kill you myself, you fucking faggot!’_

Terry’s voice echoing around his brain decides it for him, and he figures there’s no use verbally saying goodbye to Ian Gallagher, because what would that be worth? So he just starts to stand up.

Ian’s arm shoots out then, his hand tightly seizing Mickey’s ripped hoodie covered arm. His grip’s vice-like and Mickey knows there’ll be red marks when he pulls it away.

‘What?’ Mickey murmurs, sinking back down. Ian still doesn’t let go, like he’s worried he’ll try and get up again.

‘Can we just… Can we just wait here? For a while?’ Ian asks, voice frail. Mickey doesn’t want to admit it makes him feel at least a little relieved. He’s not alone in this.

‘Yeah. Sure.’


End file.
